I'M A LIAR...

          My wallet has never been empty till date. Oh, no! That doesn’t mean that I am a guy born with a silver spoon. It makes sense in that I always make sure some coins stay back in my treasury. Though mom and dad make sure I don’t run out of dosh, they always fail in their attempt as my desires are never – ending. I don’t understand whether my interest of being a bus conductor stemmed up due to my habit of having coins in my purse or vice – versa. Jokes apart, I’m a middle – class youth with adequate amount to satisfy everyday needs, but unprepared for a sudden requirement of large volumes of cash.

          Coming to the reason behind this coin accumulation phenomenon, I have the habit of giving away something to each and every beggar I find. Since I am neither Karna nor Bill Gates, I can donate only in pennies, as it is. Friends do state that I would have got enough money to get a brand new laptop had I saved those coins. Yes, the lappy thing still dodges me but no matter what, my habit has never stopped its course till date. Sometimes, I feel as contended and happy as ARR after delivering his composition while the thought of how a single coin could help a human being survive his/her day out boggles me mostly. Mom had once consoled me that fifty or hundred of those one – rupee coins may suffice. Thinking of Chennai’s cost of living, even a grand seems meager.

          We recently spent the evening of a Friday wandering around Kotturpuram and Adyar. As usual, my business started and I soon became the centre of laughter. One guy said, “Had this guy given me the money he has frittered away so far, I would have watched 10 movies.” Another commented, “I’d have easily dated 5 or 6 girls.” My best buddy asked me how I always stayed neutral to these kinds of remarks by just exuding a smile. My memories went back.

          I was then at fourth grade. The school was not very far from my home. To get a clear picture of my town, no distance can be regarded as ‘far’ as the whole town could very well fit into the size of CEG, or maybe IIT – M. Since my school was not that kind of ‘educating’ its students with various kinds of co – curricular and extra – curricular activities, I had the privilege of getting back home early in the evening. As I was idle after that (which implies playing in the streets), mom got that idea of getting me admitted into a Hindi class. My parents are not one among those stereotypes of Tamil Nadu who arbitrarily decide what is to be done to their children. But then, asking the preference of a 9 – year old isn’t worth much. I didn’t know what is what and agreed.

          My class started on the auspicious day of Vijayadasami. Though I missed my playing cricket, hide and seek et al, I loved that language basically because it was easy for me to grasp things. A 4^th standard student learning the alphabets isn’t that hard, really. My tutor was a lady, whose appearance would arouse the fear and increase the heartbeat of any of her students manifold, but who at heart was really kind. There were only 2 or 3 of us there and it was easy at both sides. The teaching and learning synchronized well and everything was smooth.

          The first month of my Pratmik was over and it was time to pay the fees. Don’t imagine much, just Rs. 30. In those days, school subjects for higher secondary students cost only 100 bucks a month and I remember my whole family of four enjoying a movie for 80. Today, the tuition fee goes beyond the monthly income of mom. And, some schools in Chennai, I hear, levy amounts which are slightly more than the yearly pay of mom and dad combined, merely for the admission into kindergarten. Mom gave me the money and I, with great devotion and fervor, kept those three 10 – rupee notes juxtaposed between the centre pages of my notebook. Mom gave that look, which seemed to stress, “I’ve given my whole property to you. Be careful. If you lose it, I am bankrupt and ruined.”

          I left for the tuition, hugging the bag which contained the notebook and in turn the money, like a teddy bear. When one of the neighbors said hello, I hurried as if he was about to snatch it away from me. It was the first time ever in my 9 – year old history that I was vested with that much cash. It was as if I was a secret agent, who had to deliver some confidential message that was in the bag to my higher authority.

          Just when I was about to reach the class, a boy, obviously younger than me, called, “Anna”. That was the first instance of someone calling me with a senior relationship and I was pleased at least for that. He sported a bare chest and wore the so – called trouser, which was in the dusk of its life. He told me that he needed money. I was shocked and thought immediately that he should have seen me going with cash. When I told him that I could not give him and explained my situation, he shed a tear, then started weeping and soon it transformed into a dam opened during rainy season. I couldn’t bear that and so gave it way to him. Neither he nor I spoke about the quantity of money as I gave away those 30 rupees, without knowing who he was. I didn’t know to ask how much he needed and not to give all the money I had.

          Left with no money, I returned home without attending the classes, not before playing cricket in the adjacent street. My plan was to make up as if I had attended the class by going home after an hour’s play. (My first ever bunking of a class) To my dismay, mom welcomed me with the question, “Where have you been?”, which meant she had cross – checked. I didn’t reply. What followed was a serious of slaps in my cheek and I started crying with an uproarious volume. That day was new to me. Everything had happened for the first time - a fellow calling me with respect of brotherhood, me initiating my charity and mom slapping me. These had never happened to me previously and I was simply petrified. I didn’t know why I could not muster up courage to tell mom that I helped a poor fellow. For sure, mom wouldn’t have believed but it was worth a try.

          What was more shocking was that my parents had by then, come to a decision that I was not interested in Hindi. Since I had played and enjoyed my day out there, the option of me losing the money was eliminated as they thought I, as their son, should’ve at least made an attempt to search it out. Finally, I had become a CHEAT, FRAUD and LIAR at home.

          The issue was never raised then and it hasn’t become a topic of conversation till date, except for dad recalling the incident when I argue with him. I had lost the golden opportunity of learning the lingua franca of India (I hope it is), but I have no regrets. I had developed a philanthropic attitude at the age of nine. Further, I had adhered to Thiruvalluvar’s golden words:

                   “Poimaiyum Vaaimai Idaththu Puraitheerndha

                   Nanmai Payakkum Enin”

(Lie is not lie if it serves a good and selfless cause)

          I was brought back to reality by my buddy’s pat. I just smiled at him again.

WHEN I COULDN'T STAND ON MY OWN LEGS.....

                Life never goes on like a melody. There are rough patches then and there. Imagine a Lamborghini Gallardo going at its top speed in an Indian road; there’s sure to be a smack due to speed - breakers. This kind of smack happened to me recently. If Yuvraj Singh can write a whole book about his battle against cancer, why can’t I try out at least a small piece?

                Going back to the smack part, that happened to be a pleasant Saturday morning. I, keeping in mind mom’s advice, took a leisurely oil bath and was about to return to my room when my right leg seemed to have become involuntary. There was a bit of pain; it looked as if I had strained a muscle. After getting ready to go to the mess, I became the centre of mockery for my roommate as I couldn’t keep myself stable. My right leg flexed like a drumstick and I fell down just like a toddler trying to stand up and walk for the first time ever in his/her life. I tried to kick hard and pressed the right foot hard against the ground. It was alas for me and voila for that fatto. I fell down again and realized something was wrong. When I tried to stand up again, I could feel a sharp sting of pain going through the spine. Yeah, I admit tears fell off my eyes and I just collapsed on the bed. Prabhu Deva, or rather Michael Jackson himself, would have seriously bowed down on seeing my efforts to merely stand steadily. I was dancing as if performing for some heavy metallic rock.

                After some two hours of sleep, when I attempted with full optimism and hope to make everything regular by walking, gravity seemed to play its role by attracting my whole body as I fell down once again. Now, I realized that it wasn’t merely a sprain; my right leg had totally become numb. “Oh, this is crazy”, I thought. Typically, it must have been one such effects of the Chaos Theory which had anachronistically stuck me in a ruthless fashion. What else could that be? (P.S: Chaos Theory states that the flutter of a butterfly’s wings can cause an earthquake or even tsunami in some way or other. Visualize Dhasavatharam) There was no chance of me falling down. My only supreme exercise daily was walking to the mess and to the classroom. I hadn’t played any sport in the recent past to the extent of straining my leg; or rather I don’t play any game in the so – called hardcore way. I am one of those million people in and around this globe who like to watch all kind of sports and lament about things but never attempt to be active so as to realize the toughest part of them.

                When it came to the limelight that I couldn’t wear ordinary slippers as there was no grip between the fingers of my right leg, it became evident that the situation could not be rectified without medical aid. So, I asked this guy, Iqbal, who had had enough entertainment that day, thanks to me, to call for an ambulance. And since that guy wanted some more comedies, he secretly informed a whole gang of our friends through a call. Guess what, when I reached the ground floor, there were myriad of dudes standing there with ‘anxious’ faces, each of them enquiring about what actually happened. What could I tell them? Even I had no idea of what had happened and what I was going through. So, we boarded the ambulance. Yes, by ‘we’, I mean it. There were some eight guys, who got in along with me that the driver really got puzzled as to who was the patient. (The first thing these medical people do is to make you feel you isolated by labeling you as ‘patient’)

                I knew that the Health Center at our college would never be of any use but for fever and cold. There would be only one general physician, a lady who would exude an expression that could rate her as the most melancholic person in the world. And, there are these assistants at the pharmacy would play the role of anarchist, monarch, autocrat, bureaucrat or whatever you call it and whose faces I always avoid. The only consolation is the Ilayaraaja songs played mildly in the speakers. As I expected, this so – called doctor asked me to apply some creams and gels and take rest. I was in no mood to explain her that I had already had enough rest and this was something terrible. Comprehending my urge to go to some nearby hospital, the ambulance driver offered to drop me. Just then, as if he had acquired a spiritual awakening, he stated, “Thambi, you go upstairs. M.E counseling is going on. There’ll be specialists out there. Perhaps, you’d get more clarity.”

                Getting to the first floor was the next Himalayan task. So, two guys lifted me and I was really getting embarrassed as almost every soul in that vibe watched me like adolescent people watching Sunny Leone or Poonam Pandey. Finally, there was a typical doctor, the kind of person who is born to serve people. (The cost of her make – up would easily go beyond that of 1 gram of gold) This woman was really concerned and she, after some enquiries, gave a reference to one of the famous neuro specialists, stating that the problem was not ortho related.

                Nero he was, this doc, rather than a neuro, who had some abbreviations related to his qualification, that seemed to overtake the acronym of my school name. He, like the dictator, told something, which I couldn’t comprehend at all. There was a doubt if he was really speaking to me or rehearsing for some research conference. There were numerous medical and scientific terms, none of which a Mechanical Engineering student can understand in any means. Finally, he started writing a note of thanksgiving to this doctor, who had asked me to consult him. I was getting pissed off and so was Iqbal, who accompanied me throughout. “Mahn, this guy is dumb and lunatic. What’s he writing in that fucking prescription like a letter without explaining the person concerned what the hell the problem exactly is?” He must have heard my mind voice. “The problem”, he opined, “seems to have arisen from the spinal cord. There’s nothing to worry about the leg.” He was conclusive; his expressions showed that he had nothing more to speak. He wrote some tablets and advised a review in the next three days. I was still in the ‘is that it?’ kind of mindset. Clearly, apart from the tablets, I hadn’t got any clarity on my problem. He didn’t explain me the causes, precautions, diet to be followed, nothing. And, he was authoritative and dominating that I couldn’t ask him anything. In a nutshell, he resembled a normal Matriculation school teacher who never likes his/her student questioning very often. Then came the Eureka moment. I read the letter which he had addressed to the ‘Messiah’ doctor and found out the name of the ailment. (Ah, finally) MONONEURITIS MULTIPLEX!!! (Sounds like the name of a movie theatre, eh?)

                My thought of keeping things intact and secret from my parents suffered a huge blow when mom just called me and told she was on the way to Chennai and wanted to see me. There was no other way. So, I told her the situation and she offered to take me home the next day after calling on grandma. I first refused and insisted that things would be alright. But, when wearing slippers or squatting becomes a challenge, life sucks. I had to go home. If walking from the hostel to the entrance was a marathon, boarding a bus by climbing the steps looked like a pole vault. And again, there was this mob of guys, one of whom carried my bag, two others almost carried me, another fellow took mom’s luggage so on and so forth.

                The next issue was conveying the matter to dad in a serene way. Dad’s IQ would suddenly take leaps and bounds beyond Albert Einstein while he thinks about illnesses; he would mull all possible complications from the basic standpoint to arrive at something which may not even exist. However, mom has learnt the knack of putting things in a polished way so that it becomes a two – way peaceful agreement, an MoU kind of approval. When mom told me that dad was not agitated, half of my problem was solved. (“Oh, by the way, I don’t criticize dad. It’s just that he is so possessive.” Mind: Please don’t curb my pocket money, dad)

                After four hours of travel, the next Herculean task confronted me. I had to get off the bus and walk for quite some distance in order to get on to dad’s vehicle. Till then, I didn’t know that my right leg was completing a whole circle to complete a single step and that it was nearly impossible to lift it to make my seat in the two – wheeler. With much difficulty and not before shedding gallons of sweat, I sat in an awkward position. Dad drove with utmost care, caution, control and diligence, which should get a mention in Guinness, or at least the Limca Book of Records, given the condition of roads here at Cuddalore and the Take Diversion here and there due to this subway construction in progress. As I could muster nothing worthwhile, I slept, woke up, ate dinner and slept. (Wow…!)

                The next day went on like a year. Since sitting in floor was not plausible, I was given a cot in the bed room, which has become my place of stay (?!) most of the time in this entire period of dormancy. There were serious discussions between mom and dad regarding which doctor to consult and when. I could hear mild sobs and weeps, but whenever I passed through the hall, both of them blushed and greeted me in a pleasant tone. I could sense they were upset greatly; this, in turn, depressed me. I tried desperately to be normal but that god damn leg wouldn’t yield at all. In short, it was a marooned Monday (25/08/2014) in my notion.

                The next day, we fixed an appointment with one of the renowned neurologists here in my hometown. He, on seeing the prescriptions given earlier, patted my left foot gently with a kind of gavel and asked if I could sense his hitting. I replied positive. When he asked the same question after five seconds, I gave him a WTF do you expect me to tell now? look. He told he had patted my right foot and I was shocked; I swore I had no sensation at all. Now, I could witness the degree of seriousness I was suffering from. He had explained things easily than the so – called specialist who petrified me with unpronounceable medical names. To confirm things, he asked mom to take an MRI scan of my spine. The scan was merely a combination of estuaries and straits for me, but he looked into it carefully and pointed to some part of it and said, “There’s a slight bulge over here.” He then wrote some terms again and prescribed some medicines. LUMBAR PLEXOPATHY!!!

                After that, it was and is all bed rest, tablets, injection, more tablets, application of various gels, hot water treatment et al. I sat only during my occasional mini sessions in front of the PC, and eating. It’s like staying in an Ebola Jail in Dolo Town, with no option of getting out. ‘Idleness is the root cause of all evils’, they say. I would rather modify it as ‘Idleness is the root cause of all novels’. Believe me or not!!! I have got enough ideas to write a whole story, only that those thoughts are irrelevant and incoherent to one another. The most difficult part is staying in bed all through the day without sleeping (After the first two or three days, I had become tired of sleeping) In order to fritter time, I started reading newspapers, magazines, supplements, weeklies, monthlies, novels that it became a habit for me to read whatever I found. (I have even gone through the user guide of my mobile) Dad’s occasional weird look suggested, “This guy is reading unwanted books for his age.” The date of issue didn’t matter to me. For example, I was reading a newspaper dated August 24^th on September 3^rd; and regarding monthlies, I started devouring even 2013 issues. Vladimir Putin and Barack Obama have my neighbors now, the activities of ISIS (now IS) seem to take place near Cuddalore, courtesy newspapers.

                Meanwhile, restless mom had contacted someone and found out the name of one of the most wanted neuro surgeons of South India, or at least Tamil Nadu, which meant that I had to come back to Chennai for his opinion on the next Tuesday (02/09/2014) It was bus travel as usual, with mild quarrels among mom, dad and me regarding my position and improvement. On reaching Adyar, we had to board an auto for Rs.70 for a distance which would have taken about 10 to 12 minutes if I were able to walk normally. The timing allotted for me was 10:30 A.M and there was about 90 minutes left. So, we finished breakfast at the canteen in that multi – faceted hospital and waited for our turn.

                There were interesting things happening in each section. There were busy people, roaming here and there with various reports; there were old people who were blank about where to go to pay the fee, where to complete the tests etc; there were dutiful sweepers whose faces showed their contentment and happiness in maintaining the place clean, thereby providing a congenial and healthy atmosphere; there were assistants and in – charges at the counters, who mostly spent their time giggling and chatting apart from checking their facebook accounts periodically; there were helpers to assist physically challenged people. My thoughts started wavering. Seriously, there would be no single jobless human being in this country if people are ready to take up any kind of work. We are bogged by the thought of monetary benefits and savings for the future that we wish to go to white collar jobs and earn L’s and C’s without real inner peace. Can the service offered by that helper and sweeper be equaled by the codes and programs written by IT people to ‘revolutionize’ the whole world? Can the timely urge of an ambulance driver to save a life just for his 4 – digit salary a month be compared to the pumps and gears we’re going to manufacture after completing this Mechanical Engineering?

                When my turn came, it was the routine thing again. The same kind of gavel, similar pats, numbness, everything ditto. He asked me to walk bare – footed and suggested another special kind of test meant especially to check the reactive nature and stimulus of the nerves. That was to be taken in the afternoon elsewhere in the close quarters. So, we had to wait. Dad was getting tensed and mom increasingly nervous as I couldn’t afford to sit for long due to the pain in the spine. Left with no other option, those 4 to 5 hours went in grumbling and praying. In the meantime, we had delicious lunch at Sangeetha’s, which was the only happy part of the entire day (Forget the bill amount)

                We were asked to come to the particular Neurodiagnostic Center, which was also the clinic of that doc whom we had consulted, at 3:30 P.M. In the anticipation of being the first token, we just went there at 2:30 itself only to find that the clinic, which was in the second floor of a building, was closed. I had to face an awkward situation of sitting in the ground floor. Heard you saying, “Hey, what’s awkward in it? Were there no chairs?” Everything was fine, except that it was a Fertility Checkup Centre. Though nobody objected our sitting there, it seemed alien to me. Imagine the situation when a couple with an 18 – year old son occupies the centre of attraction in such an atmosphere. Though everyone was attending to his/her work dutifully, there was something which told me that they were watching me all the time. When they laughed for something, it looked like they were making fun of me (I always wonder why there are four or five lady receptionists in many hospitals. They chat most of the time and make some kind of mistakes in billing and fixing appointments). That 1 hour kind of went in an uneasy way.

                Finally, there was a sigh of relief when the clock struck 3:30. There was a radiologist, who performed the test. It was an ECG – like test, which produced pulse variations depending upon the impulsive reactions of the nerves when applied with a mild current. That guy was doing this as if playing Virtual Tennis in a smartphone. He plugged various cables and passed them through my leg and connected them in a confusing manner and started playing with my leg. After some 45 minutes, it was over and he asked us to come the next day to collect the report and go for a review. He had stated it so simple, but we hadn’t brought any luggage or alternative clothes, thinking that everything would be completed within a day so we could rush back. So, we put up at my cousin’s home, where convenient options were available for clothing. Mom got aunt’s nighty, dad was given uncle’s dhoti and I had to wear my cousin’s trousers, while the washing machine did its job to wash, rinse and dry up our clothes so as to make them fit to be worn the next day. Not to forget the aromatic dinner.

                As blood and urine tests were to be taken the next morning in empty stomach, we bid adieu early and left at about 6:45 A.M. The doc had sent an alert that the problem might be due to increased insulin levels, so we had to check it out. The thought of eating breakfast at 10:00 A.M despite waking up at 6:00 made me even hungrier. First test was taken at 7:45 followed by a tumbler of glucose water. The next tests were to take place in gaps of 1 and 2 hours, respectively, from the first. But, those 2 hours went in a flash as the hospital was perfectly air – conditioned and there were some really hot chicks roaming. Finally, the tests were over and I ran towards the canteen (OK, I thought of running, but obviously I couldn’t. So, I sauntered with dad’s help) to satisfy my thirst and hunger. The reports were given shortly and to my satisfaction, there was no slightest symptom of diabetes. I was worried because by then, mom was detailing various facts and figures on how to cut down sugar in day – to – day life.

                As the doctor had stated, it was a case of elimination. The problem had been diagnosed, but the cause remained a puzzle. In order to prevent future occurrences, the source had to be identified. We went back to the clinic to get the reports of that NCV (Nerve Conduction Velocity) Test and review. This revealed clear – cut inferences on what should be done to mitigate the problem and how to prevent future occurrences, but still the cause remained an enigma. The doctor gave some options and said one out of them should have been the cause:

1)      There might have been instances of severe fever or viral infection in the recent past, which should have caused an imbalance in the fluid between the nerves connecting the spinal cord.

2)      There would have been an unknown strain in the abdomen or spinal part, which might have been minor then.

3)      This may also be due to the improper balance in the height and weight of a person i.e. excess or deficient BMI.

4)      There are people who are rarely affected with some kind of nerve mismatch or bulge or something like that, which would show up at some point of time in one’s life.

The first two could easily be eliminated; the third was obviously my case (deficient BMI) and the fourth could be confirmed if this occurs again (God forbid)

                Finally, mom was satisfied by this doc as he prescribed some vitamin tablets and told us not to worry. That was it and we returned home, not before I asked one of my friends, who is also my classmate, to meet me. He just scared me by telling the subject names and I was tired of hearing all that. He advised me sincerely to read through the course materials by asking someone to send the notes through WhatsApp and added that I am going to suffer a lot on account of missing these many classes. Further, he pissed me off by asking why I hadn’t told him to bring some course books so that I could read at home. I would have gladly slapped him if mom and dad weren’t there. I wished to explain him all the thoughts and beliefs I had acquired in course of this disability, but realized he wouldn’t understand because he is the kind of guy who wants to study Mech Engg the hardcore way. Moreover, he would understand one day like I understood now that books and GPA don’t always matter.

                Before I reached home, I had received about 40 text messages and 15 calls from various people from my schoolmates to department guys and hostel mates, and even some of the seniors, who were apparently worried and concerned about my health. I have true friends, loving parents and a welcoming society to hug and embrace me irrespective of my degree, marks, qualification and everything. What else does a man want? What more would someone long for? Life moves on…

                On the serious note, I got to say that I learnt a lot about life practically now in this vacation (eh?) I usually mock at those people who speak about the value and depth of life in some spiritual discourses, public meetings and motivational sessions. But I learnt it the harder way. If a slightest compression or expansion of a small nerve at the end of spinal cord could almost paralyze me for three entire weeks, who knows what’s there in store for the future? Let’s not just like that close ourselves within the limits of our course. Let’s try to help people at least in a miniscule way so as to establish a healthy and harmonic society and fulfill the purpose of living. Believe me, this isn’t spirituality, this is reality.

'MESS'ING THINGS UP....!!!

            What are the three basic necessities of life? Even a newborn could easily reply to this as food, clothing and shelter. But, only a hosteller knows how difficult it is satisfy these needs in the day – to – day life, even more than a daily wager. You get your costumes and the other add – ons from our home, so one out of the three is perfectly fine. Shelter, well, it’s not that cozy and tranquil yet with your friends, everything is manageable. However, when it comes to the food, nobody, including your mom and dad or buddy can quench and satisfy you because it’s going to be you who have to experience and take the necessary efforts to eat it. You can wear others’ clothes, you can stay at whatever place you like, but you can’t eat someone’s food or fill up somebody’s hunger.

            There are so many ways to reduce weight and look slim and people spend millions in such oil – pulling and treadmill activities. But, my first and best bet would be to stay at a hostel and survive with whatever they term as snacks, meals, breakfast, lunch and dinner. First, you save those bucks being wasted on health consultants and the creams and tablets and tonics they provide. Secondly, the hedonism of eating would be lost in you to the utmost extent that you’d prefer to be in a Ramzan fasting. So, let’s move on to the daily routine of us hostellers. There are numerous ways of preparing to go the mess, several other kinds of calling people to accompany us and umpteen types of walking styles.

            On a working day, the rapid strides and runs of students could be seen in the morning. Especially on Mondays, when most people wake up lazily only after the hot sun rays strike their face, it becomes an uphill task to take bath, change to formal looks and then do the all impossible task of eating after travelling (yeah, by ‘travelling’, I mean it) a distance of some 500 metres (ok, a little bit of exaggeration doesn’t hurt). To add to it, if you prefer to concentrate on your diet, you’ve to face the abuses and scorns of those ever – stricter profs. Mostly, the mess doesn’t suit the students’ needs because they like every item other than what is being regularly served in the mess or they start disliking and detesting it because of its taste. Mostly, people tend to skip breakfasts here because the ulcer we get due to lack of eating properly is better than the diarrhoea and vomiting sensations we accumulate just merely on seeing it. The way of eating breakfast determines which bench a particular student would be sitting in the class and even what grade he gets. For example, a guy with a backpack must be a topper if he runs through the mess to sit in some awkward position and gobble whatever he feels like eating without even realizing what is it at the last minute and the same guy should be a last – bencher if he leisurely enjoys the ‘delicacy’ (!!!), forgetting about the time.

            Coming to the lunch session, it can be visualized as the peak hour traffic or the kind of congestion we face while trying to take our vehicle from a crowded theatre. There are those people who wait in a long, endless queue for omelettes; there are sambar lovers, who would gradually be caressing the food hill with droplets of it; then, there are these horrible dishes. After galloping through all these obstacles, finding that particular table which has a ceiling fan atop it is the next step. Here, you have to mostly face contraries. Getting a good place doesn’t guarantee a company with your best buddy; he or she might be sitting somewhere else. The entire phenomenon of eating would become futile if there’s a moron who discusses about academics and studies, rather than adais and sambars. This situation can be visualized to two guys getting corner seats in a movie hall. The entire effect of housefull boardin your belly would get drained by the time you reach the classroom after walking back for quite a large distance and climbing some two or three storeys. I believe people come to the mess just because of the psychological fear about ulcer; else, that food we eat is no way nearer to the distance covered to come and return.

            The most hilarious period is the time during dinner. There are many reasons for this. You get unlimited time to eat; you can dine with all your friends. There are certain pre – requisites. Gathering companions is the most important but time – consuming one. Calling friends from various hostels mostly takes up the lion’s share of my mobile balance. Then, the meeting spot should be decided. It would mostly be the junction of two or three hostels or the coffee shop. So from there, somebody should initiate the task of walking toward the mess. Otherwise, guys would forget the ultimate purpose by mocking at one another and gossiping about the pre – marital and extra – marital relationships of various popular personalities. After that, it would take some 5 times the usual duration of walking to the mess because we would be blocking the entire road and on the way, one guy or the other may confront some of his seniors or other acquaintances. Finally, we would have reached the mess after 45 minutes of the first guy’s call.

            Let’s take a specific case of dosa for our reference; there are certain knacks of getting dosas for the second round. Our mess has this strange habit of serving people who had already completed their first course first rather than those poor, innocent guys, who keep on waiting patiently for hours without even tasting a piece. We tend to excise our Indian mind of utilising the flaws in the constitution. There are some rare nights, when some of our friends may lag behind us. In those times, in order to keep everyone intact, he would directly come with an empty plate, get a piece of dosa from another guy and spread it to the whole plate so as to leave some patches of it scattered all around the area of plate. Now, he has ‘finished’ his first round and it becomes easier for him to go for the next by skipping the queue.

            And since we have been demarcated in the second year into various hostels based on our departments, the only place of get – together is obviously the mess, which unites us. So, we would always find happiness in sitting idly even after eating with the hand and our plate getting dried, chatting with machans. I have even heard about some incidents from seniors that they used to sit till the watchman locks up the mess. This mess hangout almost paves the way for willingly skipping the record works and assignments as we would go to some other guy’s room and continue chatting there, due to the aftermath of the conversations at the mess.

            However, these two hours of being at the mess for no valuable purpose and its effects have not been deterred till date by the scolds and reduction of marks for record submission. Finally, in a nutshell, I would rather say that we are the only set of people, who tolerate the worst ever food by making it up in a polished manner by creating an illusion of enjoying ourselves.

WE ARE HOSTELERS.....

The most adorable and unforgettable moments of college life mostly happen only in and around the hostel building (No offence, day scholars). Let me list some here….

Those few thousand rupees that we pay for staying in the hostel is nothing when compared to the enjoyment over there

Those movies being watched by a gang of more than 15 guys in a laptop inside a single room and the happiness it gives cannot be compensated by multiplex theatres

Those scolds, abuses and warnings issued to us by the warden and watchman for coming late into the hostel are nothing in comparison with the late – night outings, where we block the entire road by striding as a mob

Those cricket and football matches we watch in TV are no way nearer to witnessing a match live

Those games we play with cards like ass and uno are no match for the bridge played at clubs and bars

Those cricket matches we play at the corridors and sometimes even inside the hostel rooms cannot be overshadowed by the net practice session of seasoned players

Those last minute preparations for the most difficult paper of a sem can never be kept at par with the year – long preps for the board exams

That guy who explains us the Greek and Latin part of a subject at the eleventh hour is more than a God when compared to the prof who teaches for months

Those group studies where we mostly do everything apart from studying is more effective than the hour – long references at library

Those birthday bumps and slaps received from the fellow hostellers is way beyond the power of a Chris Gayle sixer

Those debts we incur and those bucks we spend for buddies, if accumulated, would surely cross the total assets of Bill Gates, Warren Buffet and Mark Zuckerberg, combined

The taste of those limited Onion Bondas for which we fight and brawl can’t be equaled by a soup at ITC Grand Chola

Those group walks to the class from the hostel cannot be overtaken by the long drives from home to reach the college

Those calls of machi and mapla, even to the first time acquaintance in the hostel, cannot be leveled by these hippy dude­ and buddy

The yells made by us after India wins a match can never be matched by the noise of an uproarious thunder

Those baths in showers and falls are negligible when it matters about taking bath at the hostel bathroom after waiting for our turn in a queue

Those ice – creams, milk shakes and hot chocolates that we share among us are greater than the home – made idlis and chapathis

Even the Burj Khalifa cannot be on par with our majestic hostel blocks

That moment when your room – mate gives you his shirt when you’re in dire need of it can never be compensated by those Ottos and Peter Englands

Those five star rooms and lounges cannot equal the bliss of being at an ordinary hostel, but with your evergreen friends

And, last but not the least, those 60 – 70 years of our entire life are nothing in comparison with the emotions and memories of these years at the college hostel

MY FIRSTS AND BESTS

            Was watching Vijay Awards. Director Shankar, after receiving the Chevalier Shivaji Ganesan award, spoke that Endhiran seemed to be his first movie though it was statistically his 10^th one. This sent me wondering about what my firsts are in life.

My first and favorite song is a baby uttering Amma as a new – born baby; not that which fetched me laurels in vocal competitions.

My first hit at the receiving end was from my parents who patted me gently on the first day of my kindergarten; not my primary class teacher who thrashed me for not doing my homework.

My first ever reward was the first kiss on my cheek by mom when I must have been not more than 1 day old; not the prize I got by winning an elocution contest.

My first ever adviser is my bro, who has been instrumental in my completing higher secondary education and getting admission in a prestigious university; not my high school teachers or some educational consultants giving free advice.

My first ever hero is always my dad, who reinvents himself afresh after a hardship; not the character who fights 20 men simultaneously in a movie.

My first ever friend is my darling Duppi the kitten, who is sadly no more (RIP Duppi); not Vigneshwar Sundararajan, who I know right from LKG.

The first ever garden I witnessed is the backyard of my house (which was once fertile); not the Brindavan Gardens of Mysore.

The first ever drama I watched was the one which mom enacted herself to make me eat during my young ages; not Hamlet or Ponniyin Selvan.

My first choice bike is always the Dinosaur toddler’s cycle, in which I hypothetically did all the burnouts, imagining myself to be a superhero when I was 5; not the one which I drive now (Splendor+, which is obviously dad’s).

My first ever art work was my scribbling in the walls of my home using Apsara pencils when I had been about 1 1/2 feet tall; not the simulations I do using AutoCAD now.

My first ever service was sharing a part of my food with a buddy, whose mom couldn’t bring his lunch on that particular day when I was in my 3^rd grade; not the blood donation camp which I attended recently.

The first contemporary English speaker, according to me, is my cousin, who is in Chennai from her childhood; not Winston Churchill or Steve Jobs.

The first ever fast bowler whom I adored is my bro’s pal, who could bowl at 120 kph; not Shoaib Akthar or Brett Lee.

The first ever awesome mind – boggling fielding which I saw was a man perfectly transferring the red bricks without dropping even once, from one floor to another, during the construction of a building; not the heroic save of Jhonty Rhodes or Mohammad Kaif at the boundary line.

My first ever ’jill jill cool cool’ experience was the tour to Munnar and Ooty; not the day when Voltas air – conditioner was installed in my home.

The first and fastest ever multi – tasking person in my lifetime so far has always been mom, who could cook, sing, pray and fetch water from the pipeline all at the same time; not Chitti, the Robot.

My first ever sad moment was when India lost the final of the 2003 ICC World Cup; not that situation when my teacher abused me in front of the whole class for coming late.

My first agonizing moments were those when I had waited from 12:25 PM every Saturday to watch Junior G, which would be telecast from 12:30 to 1:00 in DD; not those 90 seconds of red signal in the roads.

My first ever fear was to switch on the motor, in the pretense of getting electrocuted; not while watching Grudge or Chandramukhi.

My first ever tension was when India needed 4 off a ball to seal a match; not the last hour preparations for the end semester examinations.

The first ever gang of dons I had a grudge upon was those seniors out at school, who would not wear the top most button of the shirt; not those underground dadas of Bollywood and Hollywood movies.

The places where I long to go are the two schools where I have studied; not the hill stations or malls or theme parks.

My first ever story database was my elder GRANDMA, who was very much comfortable in creating fantasy tales and who left this world when I was in 10^th standard (Miss you very much, granny chellam); not Mark Twain or Louis Carol.

A HALF - BAKED IDEA

          Before I start, I don't feel this post has any significant meaning or content in it. Nevertheless, if you readers can smell some real stuff in it, do let me know.

          I take immense pride in telling I'm a student of the so - called 'mass geth' Mechanical Engineering Department. Albeit the guys here are funny and hilarious, the subjects are totally rot. So, I always look for some diversions to stay away from the syllabus - related matters. One of the notables is participating in club activities. This has always been my stress - buster till date at CEG apart from chatting and hanging out during weekends.

          In one of the clubs, it was the birthday celebration of some of the seniors over there. As they were 'busy' with their classes and studies, I was vested with the rightful duty of buying cakes for them, of course after getting due amount from them. Yet, the thought of walking for about a kilometer made me feel dizzy as the day had already been screwed by then, courtesy the analytic subjects throughout the morning session. But since I wanted to get somewhere out of college in spite of the scorching sun, I rogered seniors' command and went on.

          One of those dutiful seniors had told me the location of the bakery which told cheap and best birthday cakes. According to him, it was located near a Biriyani Shop in Kotturpuram where I had never eaten (Sometimes, I tend to feel somewhat lonely when buddies dine at non - veg classy restaurants while I am left alone at some Maami Mess). So, I went in search of that shop. Seriously, I didn't know that region contained so many bakeries, which would easily equal the number of stationery and grocery shops in my entire hometown. First, I stepped in at a posh, air - conditioned bakery which had a fashionable name (and aroma, too), but I took a retreat when I just enquired about the price of an one kilogram birthday cake. I could buy a comparitively costly beer with that cost.

          As I did not get the slightest clue about where to buy the cake within the stipulated budget, I made a call to the senior who was the Wrecker In Chief.He just told me some another shop, which sold cakes at reasonable prices (Generally, people have this mindset of deciding the prices they fix in their mind as reasonable and affordable; for example, a guy who owns Google Nexus says 25,000 is a cheap cost for a mobile while I, as the owner of an Xperia C, always insist that any mobile at around 15K - 18K is well and good). Then, I went here and there through the whole of the street, covering every nook and corner out there. Some people even saw me with skepticism that I may be one of those anonymous naxals who reportedly roam around the state of Tamil Nadu. The thought of some others could evidently be read from their facial expressions that they zeroed me as a burglar with a master plan.

          I was sweating profusely and my head seemed to burst in the next 300 seconds. Still, my ego didn't permit me to call the senior back once again and inform him about the muddled situation here. So, I became the deciding authority at that juncture and went into a shop with the sheer intention and hope of buying the desired flavor. Bro had already instructed me not to buy the chocolate flavor at any cost; but I was left with no other choice as it was the only thing available there. I was saturated as if the world had no other place apart from that cake castle. So, I had to buy that unwanted and sure - to - be - condemned flavor by paying some extra dosh from my purse. It hurt me severely because I had planned to satisfy my thirst and desire of drinking fresh juice with that cost.

          Anyway, at least one part of my wish was satisfied. I had had enough of my diversion (eh???!!!) and moreover, I had bought something by spending from my pocket. Pounding with joy, which resulted from my praising myself, I walked back towards the college with a majestic stride. I din't quiet get it right if I was feeling really ecstatic or depressed; but on the contrary, I felt dizzy and numb. "Seriously God, why am I a vegetarian till date? I haven't even equipped myself to know about what are all the non - veg hubs that exist in and around the campus", was my immediate curse towards me.

          When I went with the cake after making them wait so long, to the extent that some guys had then started thinking I had absconded with the money, I handed the cake over to them with a proud smile which was easily overshadowed by sweat and my tired, exhausted eyes. When someone asked me why I was too late, I just replied, "Oh, nothing. Most of the shops were closed. And, I also met with one of my schoolmate, who was gossiping with me all the time." What do you call me?

CHILDISH VETERANS

Let me insist here that I am not a teacher who is in charge of making students comfortable with homophones. But still, there is a complete difference between the terms 'childish' and 'child – like'. I almost went deep in exploring the etymology of these two words due to some of the incidents I faced in the recent past. My friends always say that I act a bit childish sometimes as I tend to get provoked and frustrated too easily. And, certain situations have demanded me to do so. But if someone has the guts to face me directly and say, “You behave childish, mahn”, I definitely am confident that they would have to face the intensity of my slap in their cheek. That is because I got a chance, if not many, to practically experience the meaning of 'being childish'. Back to the scene now.

There are too many incidents but let me not make this post futile by listing out too many of them. During my first year at college, I had the habit of going to my home very often. In one such journey, since I had no smartphone then, I was sitting with newspaper then. An educated retiree sat beside me and was keenly looking at me for sometime as if he had noticed a porn star and was ready to pounce on her. There are some trademark looks and statures for these retired government officials, who think that one might become a scholar and versatile in English if he/she had the habit of reading 'The Hindu' regularly. It was evident that he was of that kind as he, after some period of staring at me, asked openly, “Why do you read all this?” Yeah ok, I felt humiliated because I was going through some latest cine gossips then. So, I threw a look of scepticism and awkwardness towards him, ensuring that it was my right to read any news I wished, being an Indian citizen. But then came the shock. “Why don' you read 'The Hindu' or 'The New Indian Express'? You couldn't get that or...?” He paused there with a thought of hesitation but I could read him by the way he looked. The sentence could be completed in this way. “..... or you don't read English? If at all, do you know anything about English at any cost?” I was reading Dinamalar, the greatest cheeky daily in Tamil, which provides news suitable or satisfying to everyone. But then, his blabbers went on to the utmost extent that he termed people who didn't know English as illiterate and insane.

That was all. I couldn't take anything beyond that. I already have mentioned that I am a bit easy in getting ireful and so I became red – faced and started replying him, or rather abusing and scolding him. It was after sometime that the conductor came and sent him off to another seat. I could hear that senior citizen muttering, “These days, even the toddlers learn more bad words than us elders. Look how he speaks. Doesn't seem to have English knowledge but shows off as if he knows everything!” Luckily for him, I had then started hearing an ARR track, which made me calm and composed, so the brawl didn't continue after that.

I wish to ask this question to all. “Do I or don't I have the freedom and independence to read the newspaper I like? Or by the way, if I don't read 'The Hindu', does it mean that I am fit for nothing and fit for futility? Or, has 'Dinamalar' really lost its importance in the newspaper market?” But, thanks to that man, I now have the benefit of filling up almost one – and – a – half pages in Micorsoft Word. (Take the positives out of everything and get pumped up, mate!!)

Another incident just happened today. I was with two of my best buddies on my way to the canteen when one elderly man stood on our way at a narrow lane. When one of us tried to step beyond that man, he just started shouting at the top of his throat some grammatically perfect sentences in English. “I have come closer to this point than you so you should maybe wait for sometime at the other end decently so that I can cross. Do you understand? After all, I was here before you. Everyone is equal in front of law and justice.” This guy really got embarrassed as there were some chicks in and around there. But then, Dr.B.R.Ambedkar would've felt proud because there was a common man here in the extreme southern part of India, who could speak boldly about law even without knowing what it was really. And moreover, had Mr.Shankar, one of the greatest directors in the history of Kollywood witnessed that scene, he would have seriously mulled on directingAnniyan v2.0, with that man in the lead, though he was bald – headed.

I wondered what on Earth did law had to do in connection with that incident. After all, it was just a blockade by a student, who was innocent and on his way to fulfill his hunger and thirst. After all, it was just about a foot difference that really mattered. After all, even that man could have let us pass through. He, on thinking himself to be superior to us, had actually landed himself so small in our hearts. How could a person of approximately 40 years of age behave in such a silly and trivial manner? If it was our bound duty to let him go, then the same was his duty, too. But, this sense of ego, which has become so common to us, is spoiling golden chances of building great, ever – lasting relationships between people from various walks of life. Egoism is particularly dominant among the people of 30 – 40, I say.

I face a lot of difficulties in buying grocery and vegetables these days. Reason: I have to wait patiently for about half – an – hour just to get some 100 ml of oil or salt or whatever. “You're a child. Why can't you wait for some more time? These people have other works.” As if children like us are always idle and lazy, wandering around there with no real purpose and aim? And then, I have this doubt also. How long am I going to be called a child? See, I have joined college; I have got my own two – wheeler and mobile (Most children today get these in their very early days. So, maybe let's not include this point); and I have even voted in an election, expecting acche din. So, I am not a child and I am busy. Try snubbing me by telling some other reasons but not this, please.

            Once, I was in a hotel with my friends. A family of three people were dining in the next table. After eating to the full, the dad paid the bill and was about to leave when their child, a boy who might be somewhere around his fifth grade, shouted, “Why don’t you tip the waiter?” The matured dad tried to calm him down by saying that the bill had already crossed the expecte budget so it was not the time to tip the server. But, this adamant guy asked a question which made me motionless for almost five whole minutes.”If we can’t pay some ten rupees for a poor fellow, why the hell do we spend about 500 bucks lavishly in eating? After all, you get incentives and allowances in your office. Have you ever denied them? If so, let’s go. Else, this waiter has to be given some allowance, now.” That was like Lord Muruga enlightening His Dad, Lord Shiva the Pranav Matra, Aum. My hand was waiting there near my mouth, willing to fill it with dosa pieces but then I was immobile. Only when the man took out a ten – rupee – note from his pocket and handed it over to the waiter did the dosa go inside my throat.

            There are lots more. Really, I don’t want to get into the debate of whether the technology is a boon or bane for children but even infants are well – equipped today. If they could think about satisfying the hunger of a poor fellow, then that isn’t something very ordinary.  So, do never try to snap them by telling, “You are still a child.”